And now every single night

Is a toast to squalor.

What’s another night in refuse?

They paddle by in piss and

Eat the concrete, rattles in tail.

Sometimes you can feel the bombs hit,

But you can’t see them.

The earth cracks; the core crumbles.

There is nothing more honest

Than what is before you,

Or more dishonest

Than what lies behind.

If cleanliness is next to godliness,

Then this world of mine is

The perfume of hell,

With ‘I’ as it’s protagonist.

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